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shield that he must hit. Bad! He could feel himself tip. It would be a bad fall! And then the blessed crack of overstrained wood again. One more desperate effort |
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It was the roaring of the crowd that told Ian he had unhorsed Cornhill. The effort he had expended had brought brilliant flashes and black spots to obscure his vision. He tightened his rein, felt the speed of the horse slacken. Oddly, in spite of the peculiarity of his vision, he did not feel faint. There was no need for him to clutch at the pommel of his saddle to keep from falling. Three passes. |
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Only three more. For the first time, a little spark of hope that he might succeed flickered in Ian. It seemed to set the drink he had taken afire in his blood again. Think of it! Instead of seeing him humiliated, John would have to give him the prize. Ian was not sure how many men he had unhorsed today, but he knew it was many more than any other jouster. If only his vision would clear completely. Intermittently now he could see, but his eyes were still not trustworthy. No, he would not be granted time enough. Owain was thrusting another lance into his hands just as the trumpets blew. Ian's jab at his horse was vicious. |
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He was not surprised when he felt his lance slip along Fulk's shield. He knew he had not been able to keep a steady aim. Instinctively, as the metal screeched among the bosses of Fulk's shield, his legs tightened to hold him steady against the blow he would receive, but the pain in his knee was nearly unbearable. His right knee thrust all the harder, and the horse, war trained, veered sharply toward Fulk's mount, snapping and trying to rear midstride to strike with its hooves. The shock of contact twisted Ian in the saddle, but the abrupt change of angle produced by his mount's action and the response of Fulk's destrier allowed the lance to slip away. Four passes. |
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Because he knew there was no point in being first at the head of the list, Ian checked his stallion's pace |
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